


Warprize

by Devin Cage (shiny_silver_socks)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Sex, Crying, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Fuck Or Die, Humiliation, Interspecies Sex, M/M, Nonconathon Treat, Public Claiming, Public Humiliation, Rape, Sexual Slavery, Size Difference, Size Kink, Spoils of War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-05-19 21:36:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14881646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiny_silver_socks/pseuds/Devin%20Cage
Summary: Yesterday, Aithlin Threemoons was a prince. Today, he belongs to Nagoz, the orc general who destroyed everything he holds dear.





	Warprize

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chicago_ruth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chicago_ruth/gifts).



> For ruth! I hope you enjoy the story of a poor enslaved elf prince and the big burly orc who owns him now. Thank you to Prinz for beta'ing, and for the ffa discord for enabling this particular pairing.
> 
> This fic contains graphic non-consensual sex; please read responsibly and **heed the tags**. The end notes have a list of the specific sex acts and additional context.

Aithlin cursed as he was dragged into the throne room, fighting hopelessly against the enchanted cuffs around his wrists and ankles. He tried to plant his feet, to yank off-balance the two orc guards holding the end of the chains, anything to keep them from hauling him in front of their barbarian commander, but even as he fought, he knew it was futile. He was exhausted, the last of his magic used up during the final unsuccessful attempt to repel the invading mercenaries, and the iron content in the metal was just high enough to cut him off from the ley line that ran beneath the castle. 

Aithlin, crown prince of the Three Moon kingdom, was well and truly caught.

When they reached the front of the great hall, the guards shoved him to his floor, chains clanking against the smooth marble, forcing him to kneel before the massive orc relaxing on his father’s throne. He scowled up at the usurper, who didn’t even have the decency to respect the ancient symbol of elven royalty; one of his filthy booted feet sat propped up against the arm, the other flat on the marble floor.

The orc general grinned down at him. His tusks were larger than most of the other soldiers’, curving out from his jaw up almost to his cheekbones, and his dark green skin gleamed in the bright sunshine that streamed down from the stained glass skylight above the throne. Aithlin’s stomach churned at the sight of a savage gilded by the holy light that was reserved for the royal line, the shining crown that one day should have been his. He instinctively reached for the ley line, only to slam up against the barrier of the cuffs hard enough to make his head throb.

The orc laced his fingers together behind his head and smiled, the congenial expression grotesque on his misshapen and scarred face. “Ah, my first petitioner. Welcome to the court of Nagoz, little Princeling.”

Aithin spat on the floor at the orc’s feet, then stared up at him defiantly, squinting through the pain. “You are a thief and a murderer,” he hissed. “You deserve death and dishonor.”

The orc leader laughed and stood up, towering over Aithlin’s crouched form. “And yet I am a king, and you are a slave. We don’t always get what we deserve, elf,” he said, leaning in to cup Aithlin’s cheek in a mockery of gentleness. 

Aithlin lunged forward in a desperate attempt to bite the orc’s thumb, the only part of him he could reach. The orc easily avoided the clumsy attack, and brought his free hand up to Aithlin’s other cheek, squeezing Aithlin’s face between them until he was sure his jaw would crack. “You may think I’m a barbarian, little princeling, but I’m about to do you a great service,” he said, close enough that Aithlin felt a tusk rub threateningly against his cheek. “Your father died to protect you, and as he died he begged me for your life. I have very little honor to speak of, but it suits me to grant his request. Most of your people will not receive this choice, so I suggest you choose wisely.”

He nodded to the guards, obviously dismissing them, then grabbed Aithlin’s upper arm and dragged the elf to his feet with ease, turning him so they both faced the assembled army. Most of them were orcs, still wearing their mismatched and bloody chain mail, but a few scattered humans and dwarves stood among the ranks as well. Aithlin even spotted a few wild elves among the crowd, those savages who had refused to accept his line as rightful rulers of the race. Overall, they looked more like a motley band of brigands than a well-trained army, but as soon as their general raised his hand, the room fell silent and every eye turned to him. “Comrades,” he began, his voice amplified by the purposefully built audience chamber, “today, we have claimed victory over the kingdom of Three Moons!”

A deafening cheer rose from the soldiers, accompanied by the clang of swords on shields and the bass rumble of feet stomping. The orc let it continue for a minute, before he raised his hand for quiet again. “Our victory was not without its costs, and we are fewer in number today than we were yesterday.” 

The response to that was a loud chorus of boos and hisses, and several strings of curses in a variety of languages. More than one angry soldier sent a nasty glare toward Aithlin, who couldn’t hide a vicious grin. He would not apologize for killing in protection of his homeland.

“But,” the warlord said, speaking over the din, “do not grieve for long. Their deaths mean there is more plunder for those of us who survived!”

As the crowd cheered again, the orc turned and grabbed Aithlin’s long brown hair, yanking further upward. Aithlin bit back a yelp of pain as the chains around his wrists and ankles clanked together, and he had to raise himself up on his tiptoes to keep his hair from being ripped out by the root. “This one is quite the prize, is he not?” The orc tweaked one of Aithlin’s nipples through the thin linen tunic with his free hand, squeezing hard enough to draw another pained sound from Aithlin’s throat. “The crown prince, the pride and joy of the Three Moon kingdom,” he continued, smirking as he denigrated everything Aithlin stood for. “What do you think we should do with him?”

The response to his question was immediate. Every soldier seemed to have an idea what punishments should be dealt out to Aithlin.

“Give ‘im to us, Chief!”

“Yeah, let us have a taste of that elf arse!”

“Not much meat on ‘im, but I bet he cries pretty.”

“His cock’s probably as skinny as he is! My cunny needs more than that.”

“We could find out how much blue blood the boy’s got in ‘im. My dagger’s thirsty.”

“Throw him to the hounds, let them rip him to pieces.”

“Not ‘til we’ve had our fun, though!”

The crowd laughed uproariously at that, and with each comment, Aithlin found his confidence give way to fear. He’d come into this room secure in the knowledge of his inevitable execution, but somehow, he’d assumed his captors would treat him with at least a modicum of respect, as a high-ranking prisoner of war. Instead, these men and women were looking at him with a vicious sort of glee in their eyes that shook him to his core. They spoke of raping and torturing him as if it were their due as a conquering army, and without access to the ley lines, there was nothing he could do about it.

He craned his neck upward until he could catch a glimpse of the warlord’s face, only to find him staring down at Aithlin with a predatory grin on his hideous green face.

“I don’t think he likes the sound of that, boys,” he announced, laughing at Aithlin. “Do you, princeling,” he asked, punctuating the question by shaking Aithlin roughly, as one would a particularly recalcitrant dog.

Unsure what was expected of him, Aithlin did nothing, just stared beseechingly at the orc, images of his rape and defilement flashing through his head. “Please,” he finally whispered.

“Please, what, little prince?” The orc shook him by the hair again, and Aithlin’s neck cracked painfully. “Please fuck you? Is that what you want me to do?”

Aithlin’s eyes widened, and he tried to shake his head, but the orc’s grip on his hair was too tight. “No, no, please,” he pleaded, his gaze dropping to the prominent bulge between the orc’s leather-clad thighs. Nagoz stood a head taller than any other orc in the army, and Aithlin’s ass clenched in dread at the thought of a proportionally massive cock invading him.

“Well, see, here’s the problem with that,” the orc said, lowering his arm a few inches, relieving some of the pressure on Aithlin’s scalp. “You don’t get to have it both ways. Either I give you to my soldiers, to do with whatever they please—” Aithlin shuddered as another round of cheers went up, “—or I take you as my personal slave. It’s your choice, princeling.”

Aithlin wanted to scream. What sort of choice was that? Be raped to death by a hundred filthy soldiers, or be a personal sex slave to the man who’d killed his father? One option gave him the guarantee of a quick, if horrifically painful death, while the other promised a slightly longer life full of violation and humiliation, but with the hope of escape in the future. He glared at the orc, who seemed amused by his impotent anger. “You’re a monster,” he spat.

The orc raised his eyebrows. “Does that mean you’ve made your choice?” he asked, moving Aithlin slightly toward the raucous soldiers.

“No!” Aithlin shrieked. 

“Then tell me what you want,” the orc said, leaning in and releasing his grip on Aithlin’s hair and raising his other hand to caress Aithlin’s cheek. “All you have to do is ask. Loudly. So everyone can hear you make your choice. We don’t want there to be any confusion.”

Rage burned through Aithlin. This barbarian was going to make him beg to be raped, to ask to be defiled by the man who’d killed his father and stolen his throne. He clenched his teeth and reached for the ley line again, only to be blocked by the cuffs once more. Angry tears gathered in his eyes as he stared up at his captor, who was obviously enjoying his distress.

“Time’s ticking, princeling,” the orc murmured, face inches from Aithlin’s. “What’s it going to be?”

Aithlin felt sick, but he didn’t really have a choice. He slumped forward, his head bowed. “You,” he whispered.

The orc reached down to cup his chin, tilting his face up until Aithlin was forced to look into his dark eyes. The gentleness of the action sent a confused wave of sensation through Aithlin’s body, and he began to tremble. “What do you want me to do to you, Princeling?”

“I want— I want you to—” He stuttered to a stop, and closed his eyes, unable to look at the orc. “I want you to fuck me,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

The orc hummed as a pleased smirk spread across his scarred face. “I don’t think they heard you, Princeling,” he said. “Say it louder. I know you can.”

Stomach rebelling, Aithlin took a deep, shuddering breath. “I want you to fuck me,” he said, his voice carrying throughout the room.

The audience broke into a mix of cheers and boos, and Aithlin felt hot tears sliding down his cheeks. “It’s so good of you to ask for what you want,” the orc said, delicately wiping away the moisture with his callused thumb. The soft touch made Aithlin cry harder, anticipation and fear sitting like lead in his stomach as Nagoz licked the tears from his own thumb with a hum of pleasure.

“Come now, princeling,” the orc said, grabbing Aithlin’s upper arm again. He could feel bruises forming on his arm in the shape of the orc’s massive paw, and his tears fell faster at the thought of yet another mark of ownership on his body as he was dragged back toward the throne. “Time to give you what you asked for.”

For a split-second, Aithlin let himself be moved, until his brain caught up with what was happening and he started to struggle. The chains attached to his cuffs hung loose, clanking loudly against the marble floor, but the massive orc general easily manhandled Aithlin across the great hall and up the marble steps to the dais. He tossed Aithlin face-first against the side of the throne hard enough to knock the breath from Aithlin’s lungs. Before he could get back on his feet, the orc was pressed up behind him, one huge hand flat on Aithlin’s back, shoving his head down into the seat of the throne. 

Aithlin whimpered, face crushed against the seat worn smooth by generations of elven kings, as he heard the unmistakable sound a belt being unbuckled. His own trousers were shoved down unceremoniously, bunching around his knees and baring his lower body to the chill air of the throne room. The whoops and cheers of the audience echoed in his ears as a thick, blunt finger teased his hole, and he squeezed his eyes shut to block out the sight of a hundred gloating soldiers touching themselves.

The finger disappeared for a second, and something cold and wet dribbled down between his cheeks. “Don’t want to break you the first time,” the orc said, causing the soldiers to laugh uproariously. The finger returned, sliding in up to the first knuckle before hitting any resistance. Aithlin bit his lower lip as the orc worked it further in, trying to breathe through the pain and force his body to relax. 

Too soon, one finger became two, then three, stretching him wide. Shoved up against the carved and gilded throne, Aithlin felt his cock thicken as the orc stimulated his prostate, and he moaned in mingled pleasure and humiliation, tears and snot dripping onto the seat of the throne. He felt the scrape of chain mail through his tunic as the orc leaned over, close enough for his breath to ghost over the tip of Aithlin’s pointed ear. “It seems you did want this,” he said, amusement obvious in his voice.

More tears began squeezing out from Aithlin’s tightly closed lids. The orc chuckled and straightened, sliding his fingers free and wiping them on the bare skin of Aithlin’s inner thigh. He grabbed Aithlin’s hip with one hand, using the other to line himself up. The blunt head of his cock nudged at Aithlin’s slick hole, and the orc shoved forward, sheathing himself fully with one powerful thrust.

Aithlin screamed, feeling as if his body was about to split open. No amount of foreplay could have readied him for something as massively thick as the orc general’s cock, let alone the minimal prep he’d been given. He let out a pained whimper as the orc withdrew until just the fat head was inside, then screamed again as the orc drove back in.

The orc set up a brutal pace, fucking into him fast and hard, both hands digging into the skin over his hipbones as his heavy testicles slapped into Aithlin’s with each thrust. Aithlin’s cock hardened fully, smearing precome on the side of the throne, causing him to cry even harder as shame consumed him. He prayed to any god that might still be listening that this horror would end soon, that his ancestors would never know how far their favored son had fallen.

A huge, callused hand wrapped around Aithlin’s cock, the grip too tight and too dry to be truly good, but he whimpered anyway when the orc started stroking it in time with his thrusts. “It seems the princeling has found his calling,” the orc announced, sending another wave of laughter through the room. “Look at this perfect little cockslut,” he cooed, twisting his wrist just right around Aithlin’s dripping cock.

Aithlin sobbed as he felt his balls tighten, but even biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood didn’t stop his orgasm from being dragged from him. He came with a horrified cry, splattering come on the side of the throne from which he’d once hoped to rule a kingdom.

The orc wasn’t finished, and his movements became even more savage as Aithlin’s body flooded with endorphins. Aithlin cried out when with a final, powerful thrust, the orc pinned Aithlin’s lower body against the throne and came with a ferocious howl. Hot warmth flooded his bowels, and Aithlin felt sick as his softening cock rubbed against the side of the throne and his own mess. 

Aithlin drifted a little after that, barely reacting when the orc pulled out and prodded Aithlin’s gaping hole with his finger. Between the remaining lubrication and the orc’s come, it slid in with no resistance, and the orc said something that caused the audience to laugh. The pad of the orc’s finger rubbed roughly against Aithlin’s prostate, and his body jerked involuntarily. He whimpered, then cringed at the ensuing round of laughter.

“Time to get up, my little cockslut,” the orc said, shaking Aithlin out of his daze and jerking him to his feet. “I’m not quite done with you.”

Aithlin tried to take a step, but stumbled forward when his feet get tangled up in his discarded trousers. The orc joined his soldiers in laughing at Aithlin’s distress. “Might as well just toss those away, princeling, because you won’t need them anymore,” the orc said, reaching down and ripping them apart at the seams. He easily tossed Aithlin over his shoulder, one massive hand holding tightly onto Aithlin’s ass, fingers teasing the still-wet hole and dripping crack. Aithlin whimpered at the casual display of strength; without access to magic, he was practically helpless in the face of the orc’s power.

“Uloth and Krilge,” the orc said, presumably speaking to two of the soldiers, “you’re in charge down here. Don’t let the men break any of the elves; they’ll fetch a higher price if they’re intact. Strip the palace of anything we can sell; I want to be back on the road by noon tomorrow.” He slapped Aithlin’s bare ass with his other hand, hard enough that the crack echoed throughout the room, and laughed. “I’m going need a little more time with my new cockslut.”

**Author's Note:**

> One character is taken by another as a prisoner of war, and in order to avoid gang rape that it is implied will end in murder, has to ask for the other character to anally rape him in public. The victim is aroused by the assault, and orgasms. There is also the implication of future sexual acts and slavery.
> 
> In addition, the POV character assumes the inevitability of his death in various scenarios, but when given the choice between "definitely dead" and "alive with an infinitesimally small chance of escape", he chooses explicitly to live. None of this rises to the point of suicidal ideation, imo, though only you can decide if it does for you.


End file.
